I was to be twelve, mom seventy-one.
(My brother Rog was somewhere around fifty.) On the verge of twelve, I basically looked like every other male kid on the edge of puberty. I am Italian-German-Irish, and have the dark hair and eyes of Italy, but the pale, white skin of Germany and Ireland. As a youth, I was tall for my age, thin and agile. I was known to excel at sports, especially Baseball and Football. In all, I was your typical male youngster.
The shindig was actually going to take place a week before our birthdays. In this sense, one would almost be led to believe that the barbecue was, in fact, Rog’s idea, because it was perfectly like him to celebrate a birthday on the wrong day. But my mom informed me that it was the only time that all of Rog’s family could be present on a Saturday afternoon, in shooting range of the intended date. Better to be early than late, I guessed. Or, worse case scenario, not to be remembered at all.
It was my opinion back then that my older brother Rog was “goofy.” Logical question: “why?” Answer: this was a young boy’s assessment of his brother, from a young boy’s limited perspective. If asked today, I would probably describe Rog as “strange, twisted and perverse.” More about this later. And, if you’re asking “was your family close-knit?” The answer to that question would be “not really.” Since dad died, our family became somewhat closer-knit. When dad was still alive, Rog and he were constantly at each other’s throats. Most visits to Rog’s house or his visits to our home usually ended in aggressive shouting matches, due to dad’s blatant non-acceptance of the fact that his stepson was basically strange, twisted and perverse. (Yes, stepson, for Rita was married before she had met Pete.) As far as our relationship with Rog’s wife Jeanne and their three girls went, there was really no problem at all, save for the fact that Rog was related to them. This freak of nature usually proved a prickly situation for everyone concerned on either side of the fence, so to speak. Did my mother get along with her son? A lot better than my father did. Let’s just say that mom and Rog mutually tolerated each other. In other words, they put on a damn good act. Did I like my brother? No. Did he like me? No. Suddenly having a much younger brother who was once your nephew might have had something to do with it but, all-in-all, I would have to say that Rog was much more accepting of the fact than say, my newly instituted sister Elsa (a few years older than Rog). She just could not regard me as her much younger brother. But, anyway. Did Rog and I show our dislike for each other? Again, no.
“So, who’s coming down to pick us up?” I asked my mother. My mom didn’t drive and me being only twelve, neither did I. One of the reasons the family was somewhat closer than usual was the fact that the girls would come down on alternate weekends to take us grocery shopping.
“I think Kaitlyn is,” mom said.
At twenty, Kaitlyn was the youngest of Rog’s daughters, and the second youngest of the family (her brother Stephen was eighteen, her sisters Denise and Lana twenty-six and twenty-three, respectively). Kaitlyn took after her Greek mother more than her German-Irish father. She had shoulder-length, black, curly hair and dark eyes and stood somewhere around five-foot-four or five. Kaitlyn was a fun-loving, down-to-earth type of girl who drove a cool Camaro. I was more than pleased that Kaitlyn would serve as our escort.
II.
When Kaitlyn showed up on our doorstep that Saturday in late July, her new boyfriend Mike was with her. Mike was so new, in fact, that neither mom nor I had ever heard of him before. Mike was a well-built, athletic, handsome Italian around the same age as Kaitlyn, if not a few years older. He had curly, permed brown hair, dark eyes and an olive-skinned complexion. Mike very easily could have passed for a Latino and, although I assumed that he was of Italian descent, he could just as well have been of Spanish origin. It was obvious that Kaitlyn liked him and that he liked her. All-in-all, Mike was very friendly and sociable.
After the introductions were dispensed, the four of us climbed into Kaitlyn’s white Camaro. Rog lived a good thirty-to-forty miles to the north, in a semi-rural, very affluent town. Although it did not register to my twelve year-old mind then, it has since proved a mystery to me: when my parents had moved to the central Jersey area from Brooklyn some thirty years earlier, my father and Rog had jobs at the same company. My father held his position until his death, shortly before which he was made a department foreman. Rog was terminated from the company in disgrace shortly after he had begun. We had lived in the same small duplex in a working-class neighborhood since I was born. Rog, however, after his marriage to Jeanne, moved up north and had owned some very nice (although by no means posh) homes in the last thirty years. I have since came to two conclusions. First, either Jeanne’s family was affluent (which could have been very possible) or second, Rog, who had a penchant for being somewhat enterprising (as promised, more on this in a bit), was up to his old tricks again. Most likely, it was a little of both.
We arrived at Rog’s house about twenty minutes later. This was the third home that Rog owned since I was born. The first was a handsome, one-story ranch style in Stanton that looked like it could have been designed by Mr. Brady. My father and cousin-in-law helped move Rog out of Stanton and into a San Francisco style home built into the side of a hilltop on a street just off of the main drag in Bentley. This house was his third. It was a large two-story, cream colored modern Colonial in a very nice, quiet neighborhood. And though I cared not to admit it, I was impressed.
Kaitlyn pulled into the stone driveway located on the side of the house. Almost immediately, we were greeted by Lana, Denise and Jeff (Denise’s husband). They were somewhere in the backyard and, at the sound of Kaitlyn’s car on the stone gravel, came around the corner of the house. Lana was the sexiest of the three sisters. She was about five-foot-seven or eight, but her ever-present, four-inch heeled wooden clogs raised her up to nearly six feet. Lana, in contrast to her sisters and brother, catered more towards our side of the family’s Germanic descent than that of Jeanne’s Grecian heritage. She had long, straight, dirt blonde locks that reached the middle of her back. Lana’s face featured high-set cheekbones, deep-set, hazel eyes and fairly thin (but inviting) lips. The second oldest sibling of the family was a tight sweater girl in the Fall and Winter months, but on warm days she wore tight-fitting tops that were tucked into her patented skin tight, faded jeans. Lana’s best features were her large breasts and posterior, which shook like jelly out of control whenever she took a step in her clogs.
Denise, the eldest of the sisters, was an attractive, brown-haired girl with pretty, brown eyes. However, she did not possess either the looks or personality of her sisters. Denise was rather flat-chested and owned a straight-laced, shapeless body. Being married to an attorney and employed as a paralegal herself had given her an aloof, distanced air that I could never accept or get used to. Her husband Jeff I didn’t care for at all. Jeff was tall, thin and mustached; possibly slightly older than Denise. He was even worse than Denise in reminding you, through his speech and mannerisms, that he came from and made lots of money and you did not. Of course, at age eleven, I just knew that I didn’t like Jeff. It was not until years later that I figured out why.
Almost immediately following our greeting by Lana, Denise and Jeff, the side door to the house sprang open and we were further greeted and invited inside by Jeanne. Jeanne was the epitome of a Grecian woman: lively, enthusiastic and animated; with dark skin, jet black, permed hair; dark eyes and a full, sensuous mouth. Jeanne was a few years younger than Rog. I could never figure out how someone like my brother could possibly land such a handsome woman who seemed his exact opposite. According to Jeanne, it was due to Rog’s “cute butt.” One look at my hulking brother and it was very hard to imagine him ever possessing a “cute butt” desirable to the female persuasion. But anyway. Any good the girls possessed (I leave Stephen out of this because, to me, he seemed to display faint traces of his father more than his mother) were gifts from Jeanne, not Rog. I thought the woman a saint.
It should be noted here that Rog did not join his wife in our acceptance into his dwelling place. This would be typical of Rog. Rog didn’t go to people, people came to him, even when those people were his immediate family. He was as some old, perverse god that hid his face behind a temple veil. In this case, Rog’s “Holy of Holies” was the kitchen. Initial greetings were the duty of women, not gods.
“Rog, mom and Rob are here,” Jeanne called out to her husband’s invisible presence.
“Come into the kitchen.”
“What, are you too good to see your mother?” Mom said firmly. “You’re younger than I am, buster. Remember that.”
Rather reluctantly, I would say, the deity showed his face.
“Not by much.”
Nearly everything said by mom and Rog to each other was in this fashion, like two pieces of sandpaper that rubbed against each other. Very rough. To this day, I can’t be sure how much was in good fun and how much was vindictive assault. Apparently, Jeanne had the same hermeneutic dilemma.
“Rog! It’s your mother. Show some respect.”
“Hi, Rita,” Rog said. A chuckle. He walked over to mom and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Rog wore his ever-present, sarcastic grin, the one where he seemed to be saying “f**k you” to the entire world as he looked down at me, almost as an afterthought.
“It’s my little brother,” he said in a booming voice, somewhat over-enthusiastically. “My little bro.” Rog offered a massive hand. “Put it there, Rob.”
I accepted his handshake with silent disgust. “Hey, Rog,” I said. I tried my damnedest to sound cheerful. I don’t think I succeeded.
The best word to use to describe Rog in this context was “imposing.” Rog didn’t enter a room, he imposed his presence upon it. And Rog’s presence was certainly more than capable of imposition. He didn’t have much alternative. At six foot and two-hundred and fifty pounds, Rog was a force to be reckoned with. In fact, he was downright intimidating. Personally, I think he enjoyed it.
Rog bragged about his home and showed us around for ten minutes before he led us through the back door of the kitchen and out onto his spacious patio. The entire clan was either here or in the large backyard, which was enclosed by a wooden, three-rung fence and a row of hedges, about six-feet high, that ran along the fence on the side of the yard opposite the driveway and at the far end. Everyone was either cooking, table setting or pursuing recreational activities such as frisbee. Denise helped Jeanne set the two wooden picnic tables placed end-to-end and draped with a large checkerboard tablecloth. Jeff and Mike were busy at two barbecue grills. They cooked up thick juicy steaks, hamburgers and plump hot dogs. Rog more-or-less helped with this task, but mostly supervised everyone in general.. Stephen (a tall, handsome boy with long, dark shoulder-length styled hair and dark eyes that reminded one of Greg Brady) was involved in a game of Frisbee with Kaitlyn and Lana. My mother, who had leg problems, sat herself down at the picnic table. She continually asked Jeanne and Denise if she could help out in any way. She was repeatedly denied. I, the proverbial “fish out of water,” positioned myself uneasily next to my mother. As a youngster, I was somewhat on the shy side, and in the presence of so many people older than myself at one time was somewhat uncomfortable. That and the fact that even from a very early age, although I liked people, I eventually liked to be alone more. I still do.
It was soon after our arrival in the midst of all of this festive activity that the thundering voice of Rog announced that dinner was on the table.
Although the food was good, the atmosphere and conversation at the table were typical. Denise and Jeff were their aloof, professional selves. Kaitlyn and Lana were earthy and fun-loving. Jeanne was enthusiastic. My mother was talkative. Stephen and I were quiet and spoke only when spoken to. And Mike? He was somewhere in-between. New to the family, Mike seemed a little unsure of himself. For some reason, when Kaitlyn did not have his attention, he looked to me.
The seating arrangement at the picnic tables went something like this: at the end of the table nearest the driveway sat Rog. To his immediate left sat mom, then me, then Mike, then Kaitlyn, then Lana. To Rog’s immediate right sat Jeanne, then Denise, then Jeff and finally Stephen. Because Lana was without a significant other, the last space next to Stephen was vacant. (In truth, it seemed to be silently believed by the occupants of the table that Rog’s spirit occupied that vacant space, so that he could observe himself as in a mirror, and get everyone else coming and going, so to speak.)
Rog was definitely in prime form. His mega-bass voice drowned out everyone else and also pierced the air like a jet plane with his laughter. He bragged about his abstinence, sobriety and moderation in all things; lectured about the dangers of too much caffeine and sweets, made sure that I had chewed my food the required amount of times to ensure proper digestion and reinforced his statements on this last topic with a detailed description of the complex, inner workings of the human digestive system.
“Oh, Rog, leave him alone,” Jeanne said.
“I’m telling you, Rita.” Rog basically ignored his wife and looked at my mother. “The boy is going to have stomach problems when he gets older.”
“Yeah?” My mother breathed, somewhere between tolerance and annoyance.
“Look at my kids,” Rog said. He waved a large arm in the direction of the girls and Stephen. “They have perfect digestion, because I taught them at an early age.”
“Dad, can we just eat and not talk about this now, please?” Denise said. She most likely felt that it was her responsibility as the oldest child to put an end to her father’s sermon.
“Fine.” Rog threw up his hands. “I’m finished.”
It was almost as if everyone had breathed a silent sigh of relief; Rog’s four children probably more so than anyone else. They no doubt heard their father rant and rave about nutrition and digestion hundreds of times. In truth, they were denied any type of sweets or soda at any time, on any occasion. As the children got older, Rog had no choice but to relent somewhat on his gastronomic restrictions. But one look at my brother and it was quite evident that all the snacks denied his children through the years apparently had found their way into his stomach.
After dinner, we played more Frisbee and lawn croquet until the creeping shadows of dusk romantically laced the yard in a tranquil half light.
“Let’s get some music going,” Kaitlyn said. She turned on the radio. The One That You Love by Air Supply, a big hit at the time, came through the airwaves. “I love this song.” Kaityln began to sing along.
Mom and Jeanne sat together and talked, two matriarchs in observation of the progeny that they brought into the world. Soon, the females of the group began to help their mother in the kitchen, and the males congregated among themselves in conversation. Rog beckoned mom and me inside to watch TV in his finished basement.
I mindlessly watched a rerun of Mission Impossible on the tube with Rog "the man, the myth, the legend" while mom divided her attention between the television and the newspaper.
“Mission Impossible is still on?” Mom asked.
“No, these are the reruns,” Rog said. “I still like to watch them. It’s a great show.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“It still is. Just because it’s not on anymore doesn’t mean it’s not still good.”
“I’m not saying anything, am I? It’s still good. I know.”
Silence. Then mom looked up from the paper.
“My God. Did you read this?”
“Read what, Rita?”
“About this guy who was sexually abusing his daughters for over ten years.”
“Yeah,” Rog said. He was still focused on the TV screen. I saw the faint trace of a grin on his lips.
“Isn’t that terrible?”
An indifferent shrug. “They were probably asking for it.”
I thought mom was going to fall off of the recliner.
“Would you do that to your daughters?” She asked, horrified.
“Sure,” Rog said calmly. “If they were asking for it.”
Mom just sat and stared, speechless, as the basement reverberated with high-pitched, maniacal laughter.
III.
About an hour later, we started to say our good-byes and headed out to the Camaro with Kaitlyn and Mike. All-in-all, I had to admit that I had enjoyed myself. I was considerably more talkative on the return trip home than I had been on the way up. Kaitlyn pulled into our driveway around nine o’clock. I hoped to catch some of the All-Star Game that happened to be on that evening. Mom gave Kaitlyn a big hug and kiss.
“Thanks for a very nice day, honey,” she said. Rob and I enjoyed it. I know Rob enjoyed being with Mike. Didn’t you, Rob?”
“Uh, huh,” I said. I couldn’t deny the truth. I did.
“Glad you enjoyed it, grams,” Kaitlyn said.
Eventually, I also got a hug and kiss from Kaitlyn.
“Take care of yourself, unc. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.”
And as Mike offered me his hand in parting, a thousand thoughts filtered through my young brain all at once. I thought about my brother Rog. The s**t that made him the fucked-up person he was: his dishonorable discharge from the Air Force for stealing a bunk mate’s car one night. His two years spent in an IRS recreational facility for starting a dummy company. His termination of employment at my father’s work place. His crazy rules and regulations " how he had ruled his household with an iron fist. He still did. I glanced at Kaitlyn. I thought about Lisa and Denise. Even Stephen. And “saint” Jeanne. What was it like, all those years? What was left unsaid? In truth, I didn’t want to know. All I knew was that they all deserved better.
I looked at Mike. And accepted his offer. And in that handshake, for a brief instant, I was someone more than just almost twelve. I felt like a father would on his daughter’s wedding day, giving away the bride.
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